


It Is a Truth Universally Acknowledged, Enjolras

by jessicathebestica



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicathebestica/pseuds/jessicathebestica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Enjolras discovered, reflected on (with the aid of his friends), and came to a 'purely logical' conclusion with regard to Grantaire's feelings.  The cynical drunk is surprised, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Topic of Skeptics and Sleepovers

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was going to do just a long one shot, but I haven't finished the ending yet and I really wanted to put this up as soon as possible so, sorry for a short chapter. That's all, folks!

Combeferre was the first to plant the idea in Enjolras’ head. It was late; Louison wiping down the empty tables with a tattered rag as if the gesture would prompt the revolutionary youths to finally leave for the night. Subtleties never worked on them. The Café Musain was like a second home to Les Amis, one which many of them often preferred.

Enjolras was engrossed in finalizing an article to publish in a local free press journal, which he titled Democracy, a Divine Right for all of Mankind. It was then that Combeferre’s concerns found a voice. “Enjolras, how would you depict your relationship with Grantaire?”

Enjolras replied without lifting his pen or his gaze. He did, however, let the tiniest smirk graze his lips. “That bumbling drunkard seems destined to cause more harm than good, I know, but he is also the perfect representation of an obstacle we may face during our fight for freedom. I am somewhat inclined to persuade him.”

Combeferre scoffed. “He is a fool that will never be persuaded of anything, except to drink more frequently and in heavier doses. It is a wonder he continues to turn up at our meetings when he has clearly given up on himself and the rest of this country.”

“Your words produce a hint of acrimony, my friend. I thought we agreed that harsh judgments of character were best left to my disposal. Besides, Grantaire may be a cynic, but he will be a useful cynic.”

“So you keep insisting. But tell me then, is his symbolic cynicism the reason you are allowing him to share your lodgings?” The moment the words left his lips, Combeferre knew his concerns had somehow transformed into accusations. And Enjolras would not take too kindly to that.

“I fail to understand your disguised intent, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, abandoning his paper and pen, “but I am almost certain I do not like your tone. If you wish to say something more on this subject, please do not hold your tongue on my account.”

Except the escalating volume of his blonde friend’s voice had Combeferre contemplating ripping out his tongue as a true mark of allegiance to his leader. “I do not mean to criticize your decision to take in Grantaire. I only hope that you are cautious. In your pursuit to convert the unconvertible, you may fall victim to Grantaire’s negative influence. We’ve seen it happen, Courfeyrac being the prime example. And, well, there is also the matter of the rumors.”

“What rumors?” Enjolras asked, choosing to ignore his friend’s fear that Grantaire had the astute ability to turn him into a misanthropic drunk with a penchant for raunchy conversation. Yes, very likely indeed.

Combeferre yanked on his cravat as though it constricted his speech. “In truth, they regard your situation with Grantaire. Although—in terms of setting the record straight—I do wish to clear my name of instigating any of these rumors. My decision to stay and listen to their unforgiving speculations was purely out of concern for you.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, that is all well and good, Ferre, but do try to stay on topic.”

“As you wish,” Combeferre said with a curt nod. “Several of the men in our company believe that since you and Grantaire cohabit, it is a fair assumption that you are also…lovers.”

The blonde revolutionary became suddenly alert and ready to start a fire, hence the blazing look he threw at his friend. “I beg your pardon!”

“Of course, I never thought it was true,” Combeferre said defensively. “I distinctly remember telling Bossuet that you were just offering your services to a friend in need. We all know too well that Grantaire’s incapable of taking care of himself. His inebriated escapades have gotten him kicked out of four tenements in the last year alone.”

Enjolras’ jaw was set, and his full, overbearing brow threatened to engulf his eyes completely. He needed to steady his breathing and let the tension flow out of his clenched fists so that he would not lunge at Combeferre in hysterical rage. It wasn’t even the man’s fault. To be fair, Enjolras was not entirely sure anger was the real emotion lurking in his veins. Humiliation, perhaps. The people he considered to be his closest friends were making sexual, perverted implications behind his back. What if this caused them to start losing respect for him as their leader? He could not have that. It wasn’t an option. Not when they’ve made so much progress.

“That is precisely right, Combeferre.” Enjolras eased into his chair again—of which he had not realized he jumped out of moments ago. “Though his disparaging views on Mother Republic have almost no correlation with our own, Grantaire is one of us. If any one of you fell under the corruption of excessive, mindless intoxication, I would consider it my profound duty to redirect your path and purpose. How can we save this country if we do not first learn to save each other?”

Combeferre sighed deeply before rising out of his own chair and patting Enjolras on the shoulder. “Salvation will come, my friend.” This was a good note to end their conversation on, so Combeferre retreated toward the stairs. Though there were certainly other observations made on this topic, Combeferre knew his fearless leader wasn’t ready to open his eyes to the domestic lifestyle he unknowingly created for himself and Grantaire. All in good time, he thought.


	2. And Then Courfeyrac Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras is privvy to even more startling information and he doesn't know what to make of it.

The second person to breach the subject had the subtlety of a canon. Several days had passed since Enjolras’ awkward conversation with his second in command. He tried not to behave differently around Grantaire, these new and puzzling thoughts running amuck through his head, but it was not an easy task when the dark-haired man seemed constantly in his presence. 

Enjolras was leaving his last lecture for the day, when an overly enthusiasitc individual fell instep beside him. “If I might have a word with our fearless leader. Seeing as Ferre has now informed you of our speculation, I find it only natural to beg an answer of you. In the bedroom, do you find it easiest to take Grantaire from behind or does eye contact create the intimacy you desire?”

“Courfeyrac!” the blonde man yelled, gazing quickly at his surroundings to ensure that no one else overheard. He then fixed a hard stare on the self-indulgent brunette. “Have you completely given leave of your senses?”

“My sensibility is not in question here,” he replied rather nonchalantly. “We are more interested, at present, in who is considered the dominant partner in your relationship with Grantaire. So, if you would be so kind—”

“It is astounding,” Enjolras interrupted, “that this is actually a topic of discussion when I am not around! And if you are aware of my conversation with Combeferre, then surely you understand that my living situation with Grantaire can and will only be described as amicable. Every night he drinks himself into a stupor, and as a concerned friend I make sure he does not end up in a ditch somewhere or trampled to death by horses from an oncoming fiacre.”

Courfeyrac eyed his friend curiously before folding his arms across his broad chest. “So, you would have me believe that in the last four months of sleeping so near one another, there was never a moment where Grantaire leapt upon you like a wild dog in heat?”

Enjolras pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “Your vulgarity disturbs me.” He turned on his heel and continued his intended path toward his apartment. Unfortunately, Courfeyrac followed. If this was to be so, then he would just have to endure an earful from his leader. “It offends me deeply that you speak so brazenly on a topic that does not concern you. But what I will not tolerate, above all else, is the way you convert Grantaire’s character into some base being. I pray he will never have to feel the shame of knowing that you spoke of him thus.”

Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras’ arm to stop him from walking, curiosity turning into blatant confusion. “Hold on…you are aware that Grantaire is painfully in love with you, right?” The slight shift in Enjolras’ facial expression told Courfeyrac that he did not. “Oh! And suddenly it makes perfect sense why Grantaire has refused to lay so much as a finger on you. He was playing a part! He must have assumed you would turn him out if you knew of his feelings.”

“Have a care with the way you throw around a word such as ‘love’, Courfeyrac.” This was the only response Enjolras could muster, because he hadn’t fully processed the thought yet. Grantaire’s continual presence at the meetings of the ABC Society had struck on odd chord with Enjolras in the beginning, but he eventually took it as a sign that Grantaire secretly wanted to be converted. In his sobering moments, Grantaire even looked almost enraptured by Enjolras’ speeches. But that wasn’t love. That was admiration—for a cause, for a glimmer of hope in humanity. He was sure of it…well, he was as sure as a discerning onlooker could be.

“If you wish to remain ignorant, that is your choice,” Courfeyrac said, though he inwardly wanted to shout at Enjolras for being so idiotically blind, “but this observation of love is based largely on what I’ve seen. What we have all seen.”

Though Enjolras would deny it, his interest was captured. Something about this discovery intrigued him in a way that, until now, had no foundation. He was clever though, choosing his next words carefully so that Courfeyrac wouldn’t get any ideas in his head regarding reciprocated feelings. “I don’t see how there could be any proof of this affection. What you have observed could be interpreted as respect, which is more than I can say for the lot of you at present.”

Courfeyrac looked smug then. “Well, I certainly do not want to be put in the same category as Grantaire in terms of my respect for you because, unlike him, I do not ‘respectfully’ stare at your mouth and lick my lips, or refuse to blink when your tongue runs rampant with passionate words, or clutch a barmaid in a dark alley and whisper “Enjy” against her ear—I wish I could claim credit for coming up with that last anecdote, but our beloved Jehan saw it with his own eyes.”

“Oh.” Enjolras could feel the heat rising in his face; all thoughts of blaming the sun were effortless as it was a very cloudy afternoon. This was certainly a lot of information to process. He needed to do so alone, which meant that going home was completely out of the question.

Courfeyrac sensed his friends overwhelming distress and his tone became less playful. “I do apologize if all this has come as a shock to you, but please go easy on Grantaire. We never really choose who we fall in love with. It just…happens. And if he loses you now, I don’t know what will be left of him.”

The always resilient, austere leader felt the usual zeal he possessed slowly drain out of him. He was just a man now, faced with human emotions and reflections. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He had a revolution to plan. Enjolras knew he was destined to become a martyr for the people, so why trouble himself with matters of the heart? In asking himself, he found the answer: because this was the first time his heart was in any way troubled.


	3. A Poet's Notions on Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter because Jehan is my little baby and Enjolras is a clueless git. Let me know what you think! The final chapter will be the big reveal! : o

The third person to bring up Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship was, shockingly enough, Enjolras himself. Well, with a little help from a charismatic poet.

He spent two days mulling things over, revisiting his discourse with Courfeyrac, attempting to recall any particular oddities in Grantaire’s behavior toward him, and, of course, completely avoiding the aforementioned person. In hindsight, this may not have been the best approach—sleeping in a dirty, poorly-lit inn for two consecutive nights—as it worried Grantaire immensely. When the drunk attempted to ask if anything was wrong, Enjolras only replied with an abrupt “later” before fixing himself in the middle of the crowded café to begin his unrehearsed speech.

His addresses to his constituents were always unrehearsed, and they were profoundly beautiful and superbly poignant. But this one was different. It lacked the fire and concentration that he normally put forth. Enjolras, admittedly, was distracted; so much so that if his dedicated comrades were to rally up at this very moment and begin constructing the barricade of his dreams, the distraction would still linger there in his mind like a terrible headache.

After Enjolras finished his lackluster speech and informed les Amis when they would next meet, Joly took the first opportunity he could to rush over to his defiant leader and place his clammy palm against the man’s forehead. “Joly, what on earth—”

“No,” the lanky brunette said pointedly, “you are not warm, so it is not a fever. Here, let me check your pulse.”

Enjolras swatted at the medical student’s clawing hands and backed away. “I am not ill, Joly, and even if I was, I don’t think it would be apt to trust your diagnosis. You have a tendency toward the farfetched and fatal.”

Joly shrugged. “I only meant to isolate what you might have caught before it started to spread. You looked well out of sorts this evening.”

“Perhaps I am,” he said, slowly releasing the air from his lungs.

“Not every ailment can be remedied with medicine and a good night’s rest, Joly,” someone voiced, causing Enjolras to remove himself from his worrisome thoughts. It was Jean Prouvaire. His lean, handsome face gazed at Enjolras with eyes of hope, coupled with a lazy, yet honest smile. “Speaking from personal experience, this bears significant truth in ailments of the heart.” 

It was as if Jehan knew. How could that be? Well, Combeferre did confess that several of the men in their company speculated on his private life with Grantaire. Furthermore, Courfeyrac had said that Jehan was the one who heard…

Not that he necessarily believed that to be true just yet. It was speculation, like everything else up to this point. This would be the perfect opportunity for Enjolras to discover the truth from Jehan himself.

But did he want to? Enjolras went through enough discomfort discussing the issue at hand with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. If he allowed Jehan to weigh in his thoughts, he might as well open a public forum. A part of him felt as if he was somehow doing Grantaire a disservice by talking to almost everyone except, well, Grantaire. 

But Enjolras prided himself in demonstrating pragmatic tendencies when faced with a paramount decision. Confronting Grantaire now was unwise. Enjolras’ cold indifference would surely sprout up at some point in the conversation and then Grantaire would storm off and drink himself into oblivion. No, there was a better way yet. He had heard from the restrained philosopher. He heard from the spirited paladin. It was only right, Enjolras reasoned, to listen to the lover. “Jehan, may I speak with you in a more…private setting?”

The youthful poet agreed, his grin widening at the thought of aiding his headstrong leader. They relocated to the first floor of the café and found a corner table tucked away from prying eyes and attentive ears. “Come now, Enjolras. Unburden yourself to me.”

Enjolras hesitated, but only for a moment. “You were right, when you assumed this was a plight concerning the heart, except it is not my own. If Grantaire does…care deeply for me, as everyone says, then I don’t see how I can continue living with him. But who else would he stay with? There is no one to offer a spare room at present. He cannot be relied on to search for accommodations himself, considering his last attempt prompted an unnecessary dispute that involved kitchen knives. What distresses me most is the fact that these last four months have worked out rather nicely for the two of us, but now everything has changed.”

Jehan was glad of the pause in Enjolras’ confession, already itching to put in his two francs worth. “I understand why you think your concern is for Grantaire, but I’m actually quite interested in your feelings at the moment. You claim that this whole situation distresses you. Why do you think that is?”

“Because Grantaire is my friend,” Enjolras replied, as if that was the obvious answer, “and everyone else’s up there, though some—Combeferre—may try to deny it. His soul is troubled, and he needs more nurturing then he would ask for. I’m not sure if you're aware, but since he started living with me I've seen a reduction in the number of protests he makes against our cause, as well as the amount of wine he consumes. It is only a marginal reduction, of course, but progress is progress. I just wish the rest of les Amis would care half as much as I do about Grantaire’s well-being; then maybe he would try harder to make a better life for himself.”

Jehan smiled knowingly. “So, we have now established that you, in fact, care for our colorful drunk. Seeing as how we have already helped you realize that Grantaire deeply cares for you, I honestly don’t see any problem with your current living situation.”

“But I don’t think we care for each other in the same way.” Enjolras leaned forward so Jehan could hear his soft, skittish whisper. “Courfeyrac informed me that you may have stumbled upon Grantaire voicing my name…in the…throes of passion.”

Enjolras’ noble innocence would have made Jehan giddy under any other circumstance, but his annoyance with a certain someone caused him to let out a loud huff instead. “I swear I shall never tell Courfeyrac anything in confidence ever again. He only realizes he has regard for other people’s feelings once he’s gone and done something incredibly stupid. What good that does. Listen, Enjolras, that encounter was never meant for your knowledge. But, in Grantaire’s defense, desires of the flesh are only human.”

Enjolras shook his head. “All the same, I have never thought of Grantaire in that context before.”

“And you don’t have to, but that doesn't mean you don’t care deeply for him.” A sudden thought burned bright in Jehan’s mind as he leaned back in his chair. “You know, being the quiet poet, people sometimes forget that keen observation is vital to my storytelling. Watching both of you as of late has left me with several puzzling questions. For example, why were you picking at his plate of food when we dined Thursday last?”

Enjolras gave his long-haired friend an odd look. “That? The chef put turnips in his pot-au-feu even after Grantaire specifically requested that they be left out. I took them so that we would not have to bear witness to our friend’s wrath. He detests turnips.”

“I see. Well, what about when Grantaire got into a heated argument with the barkeep after they had cut him off for the evening. What did you whisper in his ear that caused him to flee the wine shop without another word?”

“You will surely laugh at me for this,” Enjolras said, his cheeks turning rosy under the harsh yellow light of the café, “but I was pleasantly surprised that it actually worked. I made a compromise. If he went home directly and without argument, then I would let him try on my embellished red vest. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but Grantaire has a strange fascination with that article of clothing. Although, I am quite partial to it myself.”

Jehan was beaming now and Enjolras hadn't even noticed because he was too distracted recalling that particularly fond memory. “And did you get him anything for his birthday last month?”

“Of course,” Enjolras spat out promptly, on the verge of being offended. “He would have cut off my head if I hadn’t. Actually, I think he was quite pleased with my gift. He was using this old, wooden mortar and pestle, which often altered his desired pigment when painting or what have you. Anyway, I bought him a ceramic one— exceptionally resilient—as well as several fine-point, goose quill brushes. I don’t tell him enough, but he is a remarkable artist.”

Jehan stared silently at his friend, as if waiting for a spark to ignite in the man’s head. It did not. Enjolras met his gaze, but with a sense of complacency, though a part of him was admittedly anxious to answer more of Jehan’s queries with regard to Grantaire.

The poet finally threw his hands up, utterly exasperated. “Enjolras! Have you truly not listened to a single word you have said in these last few minutes?” Enjolras shrugged noncommittally because he really had no idea what Jehan’s question was asking. “Well, in that case, I suppose my only advice would be to hold off on finding a new situation for Grantaire. I mean, you should have figured it out by now, but perhaps you need a little more time yet. Just…trust me. Give Grantaire a chance.”

Enjolras opted to sleep at his own apartment that evening. When he got there, Grantaire was already passed out in his room, half of his limbs dangling unceremoniously off the edge of the bed. He still didn’t think he was ready to talk to the dark-haired man, but as he stood in the doorway and watched his favorite drunk sleep, a strange sensation gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Simply being near Grantaire, after several days of clever avoidance, had made Enjolras realize how much he missed his company. He had grown used to the situation they created for themselves.

But what did that mean exactly? He still wasn’t sure. A decision would be made soon though. But until then, he would continue to evade Grantaire, waking just as the sun rose so he could slip out undetected as the dark-haired drunk continued to blissfully slumber.


	4. A Decision That May Benefit Us Both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! This is where it gets awkward and awesome, because those two things should always go hand in hand. e/R forever! Anyway, thanks for reading!

Almost an entire week would pass before Enjolras felt a flicker of understanding. It was faint at first; a bit like a whisper or a chill running down the back of his neck. There was a voice in his head often begging “what if?” and it only got louder with each passing thought of the winecask. By the time Enjolras grew weary of the imagined nagging voice and gave it pause to merely shut it up, he had suddenly came upon what they call ‘an epiphany’ and knew precisely what he was to do.

It was Thursday now, the evening sun on the cusp of setting. Enjolras searched the crowded market square of the Latin Quarter for Grantaire. Half an hour into the search, he found his roommate leaning against a stone wall playing some unfamiliar dice game with that local street urchin, Gavroche.

The boy tossed three numbered blocks and watched with unwavering focus as they landed. “Yes!” he shouted. “Dubblets above ten! I win.” 

“How is your luck that good?” Grantaire mused, scratching his scalp. He reached into his embroidered coin sack and pulled out a few francs for the small boy. “You’re a rotten cheat, little Gav. I should have known better than to chance a game of passé-dix with the likes of you. Keep this up and I’ll have nothing left for the wine shop.” 

“I fail to see how that is a negative repercussion.”

Grantaire looked up, squinting into the western sun, only just making out the angelic silhouette of his fair friend. He could gaze upon this man, and this man alone, for the rest of his life, but Enjolras’ recent negligence was brought to mind and Grantaire was in an unforgiving mood. His attentions returned to the one called Gavroche. “What do you reckon, Gav? Should I trust this strange creature who puts on a convincing disguise? I mean, he looks and speaks just as my friend, Enjolras, would, but there is something absent of his character that I cannot quite place.”

Enjolras let out a deep breath, uninterested in Grantaire’s childish games. “I suppose you are searching for an apology from—”

“Forgive me, sir,” Grantaire interrupted, his tone formal and giving the impression of indifference, “but I believe I was speaking to the boy.”

Gavroche pocketed his winnings before looking carefully between the two men. “Well, I fink bof a you are right mental. Vive la France!” And with that he scampered off into the shadows.

There was a painful silence that lingered where Gavroche had left. Grantaire kept his gaze on everything except Enjolras, because he knew that if he stared long enough at that marble face with thoughtful eyes, his resolve would snap. He would fall at his leader’s feet and beg to know what he had done wrong so that he might change his ways, become a person actually worthy of Enjolras’ attentions.

The achingly beautiful blonde was the first to break the silence. “I do owe you an explanation, there is no question of that. However, the matter is quite delicate and this is neither the time nor the place. Have you had much to drink today?”

Enjolras’ question was decidedly off kilter, but Grantaire answered it nonetheless. “A few glasses at about midday.” 

“Good. Do not have any more the rest of the evening.” Enjolras shut his eyes after catching a glimpse of Grantaire’s affronted look. “I mean to say that I would appreciate if just for tonight you stay away from the bottle. I would prefer that you were sober for what I have to say. Can you meet me at the apartment at 8:30pm? You do not need to eat prior as I will be making dinner.”

The very thought of Enjolras cooking for him made the task of avoiding his favorite wine shop a lot easier. He cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. I think I can be up for the challenge.”

“Very well. Until then.” 

Grantaire was alone now.

_____________________________________

It was a simple task for any normal man, but for Grantaire it proved decidedly difficult. He tried to busy himself, but itched to wrap his palm around the neck of a bottle of Vin de Table. He longed to feel that familiar burn as the red, syrupy liquid traveled down his throat.

The only thought keeping Grantaire at bay was the image of Enjolras mulling over a stew in the blazing fire pit, his blonde curls sticking to his damp forehead. He’d probably fuss over every detail of the meal so that there would be no room for error. It was not in Enjolras’ nature to allow one of his creations to be just ‘good enough’.

Grantaire was rather partial to domestic Enjolras, and this evening’s cooking attempt was certainly not the first time the drunk cynic had the exclusive privilege to see this side of the leader of the ABC Society. For example, though extensive consumption of wine often prevented Grantaire from making it further than the front door of his new residence—or, heaven forbid, the comfort of his table at the Café Musain—he would almost always wake up in his bed in Enjolras’ spare room with the blankets drawn tightly around him. He never remembered how he ended up there by morning, but he had his sneaking suspicions.

And Grantaire was certain he would never forget how Enjolras responded when he had fallen ill for several days after ingesting some rancid fish. Joly came by and checked on Grantaire periodically, but it was Enjolras who opted out of his classes on Monday on Tuesday, fed his frail roommate hot broth, and repeatedly rinsed out the sick bowl as if it did not disgust him. Grantaire would suffer through all that pain and vomiting again if it meant Enjolras would continue to take care of him.

There were other things—little things—he did that made Grantaire’s eyes sparkle with wonder. It was only natural that his greatest fear became not knowing how much longer this happiness could really last. 

This was certainly not how Grantaire dreamed of being with Enjolras, but it was better than what he had before. If confessing his true feelings meant being thrown out like the dog he was, then he would continue to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself.

When the time had arrived, Grantaire was overly pleased to inform Enjolras that he was good on his word and had not touched a drop. Enjolras was glad but did not show much more emotion than that. He waited until Grantaire was seated before bringing out the first course: fresh oysters, black bread, and bouillon broth.

Grantaire marveled at the fact that there even was a first course. Oysters were a personal favorite of his, so he knew Enjolras planned the meal well. “Apology accepted,” he said before slurping down one of the oysters.

Enjolras was perplexed. “I did not even plead my case with you yet.”

“Not really necessary at this point. The food has more than done the job for you.”

“But,” Enjolras said, failing miserably at understanding Grantaire’s logic, “aren’t you the least bit curious why I have been openly avoiding you for the last few weeks?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I’ve learned long ago not to question the non-confrontational idiosyncrasies of a man quite possessed with confronting anyone who has an opposing opinion to his own. It hurts my head too much. But if you wish to tell me now—”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, much too quickly for his own good. “That is to say, I do, but after dinner.” He got up to retrieve the main course: Boiled beef and potatoes (no turnips, thank god.)

Grantaire made a satisfied sound in his throat after taking the first bite. Enjolras looked uncomfortable, gripping the back of his neck. “This is unbelievably fantastic! How are you not cooking all the time? This is surely better than anything they serve at the Musain.”

“Do you honestly think that I have the time to make an elaborate feast on a nightly basis?” Enjolras asked, chopping his potatoes into even smaller pieces. “Between my studies, writing press advertisements, and the Friends of the ABC—not to mention the weekly rallies we hold in an attempt to gain more support—I would never be able to fit this into my schedule. Besides, the lamb stew at the café is not too bad, as long as Louison remembers to have them put extra salt in it for me.”

“Another minion bending to your will, I see,” Grantaire said cheekily. He took his teasing even further still. “Although, thinking on it now, all the hard work you put into this meal could be misconstrued as your bending to my will.” It sounded comical in his head, but saying it out loud gave way to the hope in his voice.

Enjolras was serious then. “Perhaps I was.”

Grantaire’s heart was thudding so forcefully against his chest he was sure Enjolras could hear it. “Any dessert?” he asked to mask his shock and evident desire.

Of course Enjolras had dessert: a soft wheel of Brie de Meaux with red grapes. Enjolras was about to uncork a bottle of sherry as a small treat for Grantaire, but thought better of it.

They began digging into the fine, almost nutty cheese in silence until Grantaire couldn’t abide by it anymore. “Alright. You win. I admit that I’m a little more curious now than I originally let on, especially since you so carefully refrained from revealing your secret throughout the entire meal. Just at least tell me if I will be pleased or hurt by what you have to say.”

“I cannot be sure of either.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “That was not the answer I was expecting, and now it has only increased my apprehension on the subject. I need a drink.” His last thought slipped passed his tongue before he had a chance to take it back.

“I wish you didn’t,” Enjolras said quietly. “I wish you could just—Grantaire, I need you to understand how difficult this is for me. You know who I am and what I represent. I am a product of the revolution. I seek passion through justice, not through emotional contentment. I have only ever used my words to invoke empathy for our browbeaten motherland or to paint a picture of what it could become under a strong Republic.”

“I am not a spectator at one of your rallies, Enjolras.” Though Grantaire normally loved watching his golden statue spout pretty words with fire in his eyes, there was no need for augmented proclamations at the dinner table. Grantaire would listen attentively to him always. “Speak to me plainly.”

Enjolras watched Grantaire snatch a handful of grapes, tossing them into his mouth one at a time. “If that is what you wish. To put it plainly, as you say, some information has come to my attention. I have had ample time to reflect on it, even conversing with a few of my colleagues, and I think I have come to a decision that seems plausible and might even prove serendipitous for both of us, to say the least.”

More riddles, Grantaire thought, rolling his eyes. “And what, pray tell, is this decision you have come to?” he asked, plucking another grape from the vine.

“Well, if we are to continue living together in such a manner,” Enjolras started, straightening his already faultless posture, “we should at least attempt to see if our relationship has the potential to progress. In this, I mean sexual compatibility, of course. Now, such carnal desires like intercourse are not strategies I would normally suggest, but I believe it could be beneficial to—Grantaire, are you well?”

The man with thick, black curls was uncommonly red-faced, as if he was overheating. His eyes were wide, the skin on his neck taut and almost bulging. Enjolras stared at him for a few silent moments, unsure of what to do, until Grantaire slammed his fist against his chest several times and made an almost pained expression.

“I swallowed it,” he said, once his face had relaxed once again. He cleared his throat. “I accidentally swallowed a grape.”

“Are you alright now?” Enjolras asked, genuinely concerned.

Grantaire involuntarily nodded before stopping himself. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I mean, no. I may have been imagining things, because sometimes it is very difficult to understand what you’re trying to say, but I thought you just suggested that we have sex.”

Enjolras did not miss a beat. “I did.”

“Is this a joke? Did Bahorel put you up to this?” the drunk—who really wished he was drunk right now—asked, feeling quite restless at the moment. He left his spot at the table and began pacing the floor instead. “Because whatever he told you…well, it’s simply not true.”

“Grantaire—”

“Your friendship means too much to me, Enjolras, and although it is an unavoidable fact that you are a very attractive man, that doesn’t mean—that is, I wouldn’t want—no—why did you think it was a good idea for me not to have wine in my system?!”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras boomed. Grantaire’s nervous strides instantly ceased. “Sit down.”

He did.

“You asked me to put it plainly, and so I did. But perhaps if I explain myself further, you will understand my intent.” Grantaire silently agreed to listen, but kept the all-too-tempting plate of grapes at a distance in case Enjolras decided to utterly shock him once more. “When I learned of your feelings for me, I was conflicted. I didn’t want to put you out, but I also wasn’t sure I could live with you while knowing this information.”

Grantaire looked ready to counter, but Enjolras stopped him. “And then I thought about it. A lot. Interestingly enough, it was Jehan who helped me understand our situation fully. The truth is, Grantaire, I care about you. However, I cannot express my feelings beyond that because, well, I’ve never had a reason to with anyone else before. I’ve never desired or bedded someone. I do not know what it means to truly love another person, but I’m willing to try with you. This is uncharted territory for me, so you’ll have to forgive my hasty approach.” Enjolras gazed up at Grantaire with an ill-fitting sense of self-doubt. “Well?”

Grantaire didn’t quite know how to answer Enjolras’ proposal. ‘Yes, please’ sounded a bit too eager. And then there was the part about how Enjolras was willing to ‘try’ with Grantaire, as if it may not work out and then they would be…what would become of them if this union ended badly? “What if you are unsatisfied?”

Enjolras gave a lopsided grin. “Having nothing to compare it to, I am sure it will be perfectly adequate.”

“No one ever wants sex to be described as ‘perfectly adequate’.” Grantaire rubbed his temples furiously. “Christ, Enjolras! Do you even know what you’re asking of me? I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long. I think about your lips daily. I’ve tried to imagine what it would feel like to have your lithe, naked body against mine. I want this more than you can know. But if we ‘try’ this, and if I only get a taste of you before you get bored and take it away from me just as suddenly, I will never forgive you.”

The stillness of the room was excruciating as they stared at each other from across the table. No expressions, just gazing. Then Enjolras stood up, crossed over to where Grantaire was seated and placed his large palm against the man’s cheek. It felt warm and right. “Then let us not disappoint each other.”

Grantaire swallowed. “I’ll go latch the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, if you wanted porn. That's why I rated it T, so I wouldn't get your hopes up. I'm way too awkward about writing sex scenes and, well, it is so NOT awesome.


End file.
